Encounter at St Bart's
by friend2friend
Summary: post-Reichenbach..starts in St. Bart's pathology lab, involves a mystery..
1. Chapter 1

NOTE- I do not own any of the characters used.. and this is my first story, pretty pathetic IMHO.. reviews welcome!

As Sherlock Holmes sprinted towards St. Bart's, leaving behind him an extremely perplexed and troubled John Watson, his powerful mind strained to recall every pertinent piece of data, every nuance of his interactions and entanglements with Professor James Moriarty . As the web of lies, threats and deceptions had gradually tightened around him and those he trusted, he found himself turning to the one person who now unknowingly held possibly his very life in her hands.

Molly Hooper's words to him scant days ago had caught him slightly off guard, as he had believed his deep turmoil invisible to those around him, yet he now found himself grateful for her intuitiveness for it had allowed him to build the plan that was capable of ensuring the safety of those involved and possibly bringing about the demise of his enemy.

Entering the pathology lab unnoticed, he waited quietly in the shadows for the young woman to complete the process of locking/tidying up for the night, ending her routine shift.

"You're wrong, you do count," he spoke emphatically, yet gently; and as he continued to speak earnest and soothing words the brown-haired, brown-eyed woman gradually lost most of her startled, defensive posture and demeanour.

"You've always counted and I've always trusted you" (in comparison to a certain ruthless and mercenary journalist who had assured him he could trust her...NOT...)

Instinctively he realized that in the weeks ahead, he and Molly Hooper would need to absolutely trust one another in a relationship of ultimate dependence and intimacy that no one had ever shared with him, not even John. The grim reality of Moriarty's plan and his deadly solution to the final problem demanded that he be as honest, vulnerable and sincere as was within his powers with the woman who stood before him.

"You're right, though... I'm not OK..." (Did his voice wobble slightly while he said that?)

Concerned, yet determined not to show any weakness, Molly looked into the face of the man she had respected from the start and had eventually come to love. Never before had she seen any insecurity or lack of confidence in his demeanour as she did now, and it troubled her.

"Tell me what's wrong" (the words were strange to her lips, and were in fact words he often spoke to those who sought his expertise).

Into the chilly pathology lab dropped words that were colder still, and hauntingly stark,

"Molly, I think I'm going to die..."

An instantaneous reaction of anguish and loss shook Molly, darkening her irises and dilating her pupils, the feeling of disbelief helped Molly to hold on to her composure, especially since she knew Sherlock mocked weaknesses of any sort. She spoke quickly, seeking to erase those terrible words...

"What do you need?"

Even though he had already begun to feel the weight of the cynicism and cynosure that surrounded them, his eyes reflected his amazement at finding himself so desperate for help, it was remarkably uncharacteristic for the self-assured detective,

"If I was not everything you believed me to be, everything I believe myself to be, would you still help me?" (Was he seriously unsure of what she would say?)

Molly had witnessed the blindness and shallowness of Sherlock's existence and in her own way had almost pitied him for its sheer lack of emotional contact, and in spite of his cutting, yet almost humorous attempts to see himself as a superior and unique person, she felt extremely protective of him. Few people saw the Sherlock who would not spare himself an inch to stop a fiend in his tracks; the man she believed had a huge heart no matter how he tried to hide it. She had read Kitty's trash talk about Sherlock with a raging spirit, and even while she suspected she might be merely a pawn to be used by these two adversaries, she would willingly sacrifice everything to help Sherlock defeat Moriarty.

"What do you need?" (Surely he had a plan or he wouldn't have come to her, knowing also he would not involve her in something this dangerous if he had any other options)

Sherlock drew nearer to Molly, stunned into quietness by the mystery of the woman before him. He had catalogued her faults, finding her at best predictable and vapid, yet standing before him now was a woman (dressed badly as was usual) who somehow miraculously had foreseen the desperate crisis before them and yet had seemingly accepted all personal risk. She owed him nothing but her scorn (yes, he still winced slightly when he remembered Christmas), yet instead he found acceptance and compassion. She truly believed in him, no strings attached; he owed no less to her than an honest encounter that might be life changing for him in more than one sense of the word. Looking back, he might even come to consider it an epiphany. Stepping closer, reading a mirrored reaction to his own, he leaned in as he whispered the incredible word...

"You"...

He seemed to voraciously draw energy from her nearness, as the ordeal ahead cast a numbing shadow over the room. Molly noticed that Sherlock's skin glistened, as translucent as moonlight.

"Whatever they're saying, Sherlock, I know it isn't true. If you've got a plan to stop him, then I'm in."

"I believe our friend intends to do harm to John, Mrs. Hudson and possibly Lestrade. They are most likely being watched, and unless I give myself up, they will die.

He spoke calculatingly as usual, but Molly knew him well enough to see the flicker of anguish in his gaze. Taking a breath, he closed them, steepling his fingers together before continuing,

"Moriarty has directly stated that he owes me a fall. I believe he means this literally. All the events of the past week have been orchestrated for one spectacular "finale"; my death by a suicidal fall from the top of St. Bart's as a result of my exposure as a fraud by Richard Brooks and Kitty Wells.

At the sound of a sharp, indrawn breath, he opened his eyes, staring fixedly at Molly, who trembled before him, rigidly controlling her emotions.

"You are the one glorious thread that we both overlooked. Moriarty has witnessed firsthand my appalling treatment of you, probably has heard from you how arrogant and impossible I am to work with," he grimaced ironically, "ergo, you are under the radar, so to speak. You have unlimited, undetected access to the hospital, the morgue, the coroner's office.."

"To what end?" she questioned warily.

"For Moriarty to be brought to justice; the killers called off, the impossible must take place. I must survive my own suicidal jump from the hospital roof."

Their heads drew together as they hurriedly, yet thoroughly went over each detail, conjecture, and problem, until they were both satisfied and Molly prepared to leave on her pressing errands. Looking up at Sherlock, tears glistened in her eyes and she tentatively laid a hand on his forearm. Seeing the questions and concerns in her eyes, he sighed, as he covered her hand with his. Squeezing lightly, he spoke gently to her,

"Later, Molly, we will talk..I owe you that much at least. I promise we'll talk later."

With that, he opened the doors to the pathology lab, sending Molly on her way. Slowly he chose a name on his contact list and then texted Mycroft a message.. now for the waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

Appalled at Mycroft Holmes' admissions, John Watson strode out of the Diogenes club on Pall Mall and into the dark streets of London. Temporarily immersing himself in its nightlife was his safest present option while he thought things through. Although he had more answers, he still had no clue as to how the struggle between Sherlock and Moriarty would play itself out. The Embankment was a good place to meander aimlessly, and then he intended to go to St. Bart's. His friend had most likely taken refuge there as Molly was presently their only trusted friend in London. The events of the past few days had spun crazily around them, until fact and fiction appeared to be smeared together like wet print on a newspaper. For now, James Moriarty appeared to have the upper hand; Sherlock was being set up to look like a fraud using his spectacular mental prowess against him. Time and again, Sherlock had refused to accept that the court of public opinion was a force to be reckoned with, but Moriarty apparently understood this and was more than willing to yield it as a weapon against his nemesis. After about half an hour of wandering, John received a text...

You know where I am

SH

The streets around St. Bart's were relatively quiet, and he soon found himself entering the pathology lab to the sound of a ball being bounced repetitively. Sherlock was sitting on the floor between counters.

"The key is the computer code. If we can find it, we can use it."

"Use it?"

"Moriarty used it to create Richard Brooks. We can do the same and erase Richard Brooks and bring Moriarty back. It must be in our flat."

"What did he touch?"

"An apple, nothing else," Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

John stood thoughtfully by the counter as Sherlock stood next to him. He tapped his fingers meditatively, then gave up and wandered away. (Sherlock watched speculatively and then tapped his fingers tentatively. Trying to avoid John's detection, he raised his phone and texted Moriarty.)

Have something of yours you might want. Come and play.

St. Bart's rooftop

SH

John didn't know what Sherlock appeared to be waiting for, but he suspected the day ahead would be a crucial test for them both. He resolved to wait out the interlude until Sherlock made his next move against Moriarty.

Startling to wakefulness, John answered his phone. As Sherlock looked over, he got to his feet immediately and began pacing. Ending the call, he glanced over at him,

"Mrs. Hudson's been shot... Probably by one of YOUR snipers, Sherlock"

"You go I'm busy" (sitting quietly as he has been for the last couple of hours, zoned out)

"Busy?"

"Thinking... I need to think."

"You need to...doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!"

"She's my landlady," (in his deadpan, detached demeanour) 

"She's dying—you machine! Sod this, sod this, you stay here if you want, on your own" (his disappointment in Sherlock dripping in his voice, abandoning him)

"Alone is what I have; alone protects me" (didn't he know he was never alone?)

"Friends protect people"

With John gone, his text alert sounded and glancing at his phone, he read Moriarty's message.

Still waiting

JM

Getting up and walking purposefully, he headed for the doors, his destination the rooftop of St. Bart's. Time for the final problem to be resolved once and for all.

Panicky yet determined, Molly Hooper had first left the hospital to complete the errands she and Sherlock had decided were necessary to the completion of the plan. Sherlock had agreed with extreme reluctance to contact Mycroft as Molly was not sure she could procure a dead body bearing a marked resemblance to Sherlock, garbed in his attire. This was first on a list of small requests Sherlock would be making of Mycroft, the only other large request being the trucks and buses essential to blocking the curb side view of St. Bart's . She knew little of Mycroft but the escapades of British intelligence were legendary, at best it was better than what she was capable of at such short notice. In her turn, she had agreed to purchase two GSM mobile phones w/SIM prepaid cards, and to contact his "homeless network" to enlist their assistance in enacting Sherlock's fall in front of St. Bart's. She thought of a few other things, and then took a cab back to St. Bart's, telling him to hurry. The telephone box was her first stop, and asshe stashed the clothing she had managed to gather for Sherlock's disguise, she managed to connect with Sherlock's friends. Arriving at the coroner's office, she quickly undertook to gather the appropriate paperwork; thankfully it was too early for anyone to be about. Almost sooner than she could assemble all her forms, Mycroft's men had brought in the dead man through a basement elevator. When she saw the still form on the gurney, his tousled black hair spread on the pillow, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach, one that she could imagine she would have forever and ever. She swallowed, trying to keep her composure, and requested that the men investigate the second floor of St. Bart's for a suitable room from which to stage the drop. Following the men with the gurney, she took a deep breath to calm herself. As they approached the window she knew she had done all she could to assist the impossible... all she could do now was wait. A text alert sounded and she read,

On my way to the rooftop. Ready?

SH

Waiting.

MH

As in character as I can make them, and hopefully a practical, simple solution.. only poor Molly has a lot on her plate, Mycroft is probably used to it.. and poor John!


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the reviews and reads!

Spark17 it was encouraging to receive a positive review so soon after I uploaded.. it meant a lot to me

MMonster.. thanks for your words ..I can't say how far I'll be able to take this story but I will make a grand effort lol.. I agree with you looking back on that chapter about John.. I think I was rushing my fences there and will try not to do so in future

2hearts1soul i'm glad you like my characterisations.. i have a much easier time sticking with what Moffatt and Gatiss have laid out so far than too much experimentation

In the end, it all played out simply and effectively deadly. Molly stood waiting at the window for a signal from the homeless network she had arranged earlier. Her heart raced and she couldn't seem to catch her breath, yet nothing would stop her from maintaining her vigilance. The men stood by impassively in the silent room, she wondered what other gruesome, secretive missions they had been assigned to carry out that allowed them to maintain such objectivity. She was trembling and shaky, a confused mix of terror and determination. She prayed desperately that their ruse would be successful and the world would think Sherlock dead.

Through the open window, she saw the group's attention focus skyward. She wished agonizingly for all of this to be over, and she and Sherlock far away from the psychopath that had engaged him in this life and death struggle.

Seeing something in her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of John's figure as he strode determinedly toward the hospital, then seemingly turned back in response to someone's direction. She lost sight of him behind the ambulance garage and could only imagine his stubborn disbelief and despair. She knew he would do or say anything that would bring Sherlock down from the edge of the roof. It tore her apart to know that Sherlock would have to almost callously deny his friend's pleas, and her heart shattered as tears slid down her face. The nightmarish quality of it all overtook her suddenly; she suddenly felt the urge to vomit.

The woman she had arranged a signal with raised her mobile to her ear, and instantaneously, the men lifted the body onto the windowsill and tossed it heavily to the sidewalk along with the plasma she had brought from the blood bank. She watched breathless as Sherlock appeared in her range of vision, arms and legs flailing, landing heavily in the truck parked on the curb. Thank God he was alive!

John appeared from around the corner, and already she could see the fragility and vulnerability in his gait and posture. Shockingly, a cyclist appeared from nowhere and careened directly into John, sending him sprawling facedown into the pavement. With John down, both Sherlock and the group sprang into action. In the confusion, Sherlock shakily dismounted from the truck and entered the shelter of the red phone booth where she knew he would easily transform himself into a beggar that no one would look twice at. The group staged themselves quickly around the corpse, saturating his head and the pavement with the plasma. As she witnessed the scene, the sense of unreality became stronger. For all intents and purposes, the body WAS that of the late Sherlock Holmes, the man whose bombastic fall from grace had led him to take his own life. Molly's knees gave way and she frantically grasped the windowsill to avoid collapsing on the hospital floor. Giving way to her emotions, she mourned. As bizarre as it seemed, the world-famous consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was dead, thoroughly concealed from Moriarty's agents and associates, and free to strike back in anonymity. He had become the hunter once again, and Moriarty's organization the hunted. John and the others were out of the line of fire, although she sensed how broken-hearted and despondent John was likely to become.

Watching John, seeing his faltering, hesitant steps toward the bloody scene, she loathed Moriarty to the depth of her being. John moved as if he had aged 10 years in that one moment of time, and she wondered how he would ever regain them. He struggled manfully to Sherlock's side, in spite of all the group could do to hinder him. He managed to hold a flaccid wrist in a vain effort to find a pulse. His legs gave way under him in shock, and he sank to the pavement in horror. The "A&E attendants" met with no resistance as they lifted the body onto the hospital stretcher and moved away into the entrance they had come from. The group assisted John in gaining a seat on the bench against the hospital wall. Molly hurriedly wiped her face and turned away, realizing suddenly she was alone. She needed to reach the morgue immediately and take charge of the body. If all went well, the corpse of "Sherlock Holmes" would soon lie in an ice cold drawer until the funeral.

Reaching the morgue, she garnered the assistance of the "attendants" in transferring the body onto the examining table.

Mycroft's people had worked wonders, as the man shared incredibly similar features to Sherlock; making her wonder if he had the same incredible eyes that could change colour in an instant. She struggled with her emotions as she set about her job, preparing the body, filling out the rest of the information necessary to process a death certificate and release the body to a funeral home. She believed Mycroft to be aware of all that was transpiring, and that he would be needed to come in, acting as next-of-kin. Sherlock had discussed the potential of a police investigation, and she desperately hoped that Lestrade would see only what they wanted him to see, nothing more, and nothing less. If not, she knew that Mycroft would be able to insure his silence. Until the funeral, there were many pitfalls ahead, but once the body lay six feet under the worst would be over.

While waiting for Mycroft, she could not resist the urge to text Sherlock using their SMS mobiles,

You know where I live if you need a place 2 go

MH

The text message alert sounded after a brief wait,

Will do, if necessary

Thanks

SH

It helped to know that he was okay, wherever he might be. Sherlock knew the underside of London probably better than anyone alive. She sat at her station in the morgue, and tried to come to terms with the reality of life without Sherlock. She loved St. Bart's, the community there was a substitute for family to her, yet suddenly she couldn't bear to stay there or in London proper for that matter.

Mycroft strode in, impassive as Sherlock, but haunted, too. She wondered why the brothers seemed to be so distant from one another; didn't they know how lucky they were to have each other? Mycroft signed all the forms, and contacted a funeral home, arranging to have the body transferred as soon as possible. It would be easy to request a closed casket funeral, as most people would assume the body had suffered massive trauma. He seemed to think the less that was said, the better, and before long, he had taken his leave, but not before standing silently beside the body, seemingly troubled to the core by the latest turn of events. She requested that he deal with the coroner himself, avoiding any inquest or action that would sabotage their plot. She had done everything she could do for Sherlock and as it all crashed in on her, she somehow got to her feet and headed for home. She didn't want to see John or anyone else; the world seemed an incredibly bleak and lonely place at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you so much for the reviews and reads!

**booda77 thank you for your kind words, hope you'll continue to like it

John stood at the top of the stairs inside 221B Baker Street, his eyes red-rimmed. It had taken him the rest of the afternoon before he could bring himself to come back to the flat, instead he found himself walking on and on, pushing himself to exhaustion seemed to be the only way to numb his emotions.

It seemed incredibly insane that he should be on the verge of going over the events of the past 12 hours with Mrs. Hudson or anyone else for that matter. Impossible to believe that he would not be walking in to see Sherlock focussed on a case, shutting out everything and everyone until it was solved, or sitting bored in his chair with no case to solve.

He sighed, and entered the flat, sitting despondent in his chair until Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

"John, what happened to Sherlock...? Lestrade called... are you all right?"

Everything poured out of John, as Mrs. Hudson sank onto the couch, the cheerful smiley face that had annoyed Sherlock behind her. John broke down, his face wrenched, his body slumped over in his chair...

"..I can't understand it, I refuse to understand it, and I will never believe the words Sherlock said. He wanted me to hear what he had to say, but I can tell you one thing, Mrs. Hudson, this has Moriarty written all over it. There."

"The funny old thing... the funny old thing... you all right, John? Shall I call someone?"

"No one, Mrs. Hudson, thanks, maybe later I'll go find Lestrade- I guess I'm not a fugitive with Sherlock dead..."

He grimaced as he sought for composure.

"I'll leave you alone, for awhile, shall I, John? Will we have to do anything?" She came and stood near John. Rising, he gave her a long embrace.

"Mycroft will probably call soon. I suppose he's in charge of all the arrangements."

"Off I go, dear, and you call me if you need me, right?"

John stood silently before the window, looking on the busy traffic below. It was always cruel how life continued on when you were dealing with grief and loss. You searched unrewardingly for those clues that the person's death meant something to the world. He tried to imagine what had happened on the roof that would cause Sherlock to end his life. Sherlock had been emotional on the phone, completely uncharacteristic for him, but then again, he had been on the verge of jumping to his death.

He had headed straight back to the hospital after finding Mrs. Hudson safe, realizing the phone call had been a ruse to get him out of the way. Obviously, Sherlock had anticipated the call, yet had done nothing to stop him from leaving. Undeniably, the two adversaries had chosen to face each other alone. Well, he hadn't been about to leave Sherlock at Moriarty's mercy. Sherlock's call, coming as he had exited the taxi, had been kind in its own way, yet he would hear the words spoken in his dreams even.

"Hello?"

"John"

"Hello, Sherlock. You okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came,"

"I'm coming in," he had protested.

"Just do as I ask...PLEASE "

"Where?" Where the heck was Sherlock that he seemed to know every step he took? The pain in Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks almost before Sherlock's voice..

"Stop there"

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop." The heart stopping words had taken his breath away, in that instant he had dreaded what seemed about to transpire, what he would be forced to witness, but he had hoped he would be able to reason with Sherlock before it was too late.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks, how many people had witnessed what he had witnessed, feeling as helpless as he had felt at that moment?

"Oh, God"

"I...I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" Surely Sherlock could hear the appeal in his voice.

"An apology-it's all true,"

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock had been quietly desperate.

"Why are you saying this?" Please... Sherlock... Find some other way to handle this...

"I'm a fake" "Sherlock" "The newspapers were right all along" Sherlock weeping as he spoke, his heart broke for his friend

"I want you to tell Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly" Sherlock's voice had broken again "in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

He had rocked on his feet, feeling the world lose its sanity at that moment

"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up, the first time, we met, the FIRST time, you knew all about my sister?"

"Nobody could be that clever,"

"You could!" Sherlock had scoffed the way you do when someone is trying to cheer you up when you're heartbroken and John could tell his loyalty had meant something to Sherlock

"I researched you. When we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick." did those words mean more than the obvious, Sherlock had always told him to see beyond it..

"NO, okay stop it now!" He had moved forward intending to gain the roof and have it out face to face with Sherlock; he couldn't let Sherlock do it

"No, stay exactly where you are" he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt then it was going to go down the way Sherlock intended it to, "don't move"

"Okay" lifting his hand to show his unwilling compliance

"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please, could you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call.. its my note. It's what people do, don't they.. leave a note" the finality in his voice alarmed John to the core, Sherlock appeared to be past the point of no return.

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye John"

"No don't"

He could see Sherlock's resignation as he threw the phone away behind him onto the roof. How would he ever erase the horror of watching Sherlock Holmes plunge to his death, deal with the anger of hearing him branded by the world as a fraud and a coward who couldn't face the humiliation of being exposed?

"SHERLOCK!"

Lestrade's voice broke into his reverie. Pivoting around, he noticed Lestrade standing inside the door, the pain of regret, disbelief showing on his face.

"I'm so sorry, John... I should've locked him up last night, not let him run off that way,"

"It can't be real; Sherlock wouldn't do this, not because Moriarty made him look bad in the PRESS?"

"John, as your friend and as law enforcement, I need to hear from you everything that happened after Sherlock escaped last night."

"Have you seen him, Greg?

Lestrade shook his head negatively,

"No, Mycroft's people are in charge of this, makes sense, seeing the international scope of this, and of course, the family thing. I tried, but Mycroft's being pretty high handed about it."

"You need to help me get to the bottom of this, Lestrade; help clear Sherlock of the accusations against him, help me find out what he's up to."

"John, he's dead, he's not up to anything," Greg sounded sympathetic but also concerned.

John shook his head, dismissively, and then crumpled onto the couch dejectedly.

Into the evening the two men commiserated, queried and reminisced about the man they both called a friend.

Well, I hope you like it, it isn't much that you don't already know, but I guess it's my tribute to a great character and the wonderful writers Moffat and Gatiss. I'm not done but I figure I've inflicted enough pain on all of us for now. Thanks for reading, all reviews welcome I mean that!


	5. Chapter 5

**dinosoprano I'm glad you like it! Keep reading hope I don't disappoint you

Blinded at first by his quest to best Moriarty and display his own mental acumen, Sherlock had gradually become painfully aware of the toll it was taking on the lives of others. As much as it had exhilarated him to use his gifts to quarry his prey, he could not help but notice that the cost in human suffering and death had been slowly rising higher and higher, as Moriarty continued to up the stakes, finally including John and his other friends in them. It was a terrible thing to finally come to terms with the fact that good people were dying, or being traumatized forever, and would continue to do so, as Moriarty played God with their lives for his own sick amusement, ever challenging him to solve his riddles.

The solution to the Final Problem had come to him in bits and pieces. What if Moriarty could be led to believe that Sherlock could be manipulated as easily as anyone else? Would it not end the deranged games once and for all? Then, Moriarty assumedly removed from the equation, his organization and the assassins he had summoned to London could be reckoned with. He had known of Sebastian Moran for some time, believed him to be as dangerous in some ways as Moriarty himself.

For now, the deadly game was still on, but he fully intended that the rest of his actions be done without unnecessarily exposing others to harm. He took no pleasure in causing John and the others to suffer the trauma of his suicide, but the encounter at St. Bart's had now given him the anonymity to deal with Moran and his associates once and for all.

Until the day that that he believed he had vanquished them, Sherlock Holmes must lie dead under a black marble tombstone in the City of London cemetery, and Edmund Arthur Bright, his alias, must live an invisible life. Edmund had been useful in a previous case, so one of Mycroft's favours had been to provide him with a false cyber history and ID, along with a backpack stuffed with a notebook and some money orders, amongst other things. Edmund was nondescript with dull dirty blond hair and brown eyes, has knowledge of London's degenerate ways that is second to none, and worked sporadically at a local second hand book store.

His immediate plans were to first observe his funeral, searching for any suspicious behaviour or objects on his notebook, via Mycroft's own secure web feed. He also intended to arrange a discreet meeting with Molly. Plans and observations tumbled through his mind as he lay back on a couch of the quiet furnished basement flat he had acquired as part of preparing for The Final Problem. It was clean and safe, but utterly devoid of the familiar comforts and patterns of his previous life. Exhausted, he slept fitfully through the night, his sleep disturbed by nightmares in which Moriarty pushed him from the roof and then jumped to his own death.

Awakening early the morning of the funeral, he showered and dressed carefully in his disguise, and went out for a few papers and necessities and a coffee. Returning, he sat down to glean what information he could from them, and to log onto his notebook and access the live webcam of the funeral. The two feeds provided gave him an almost complete view of the small chapel, which already had people seated and music playing quietly and he recognized Elgar's Enigma Variations -Nimrod. As he watched, John and Mrs. Hudson appeared and sat near the front. Both were fairly composed but underneath he could see the evidence of their distress. They were followed by Molly and Lestrade. The rest seated seemed to be people who had been very grateful of his help in solving their difficulties, although it was likely there were curiosity seekers and the like. Nothing seemed untoward to him, although he noticed a few men that obviously belonged to Ml6. He was grateful Mycroft had deemed it necessary to take a few precautions and would likely provide him a list of all unknown guests if asked.

The organist began to play "I Vow to Thee, My Country" and the simple, elegant black casket bearing the fake Sherlock Holmes came in and the minister walked down to meet it and follow it in. Slowly, the proceedings of the funeral were enacted, and Sherlock found himself moved by John's sincere and generous eulogy. The attendees stood to sing "Be Thou My Vision" and later "Forth, In thy name O Lord I go". The benediction ended the service, with the mourners following the casket outdoors to the accompaniment of "Jerusalem".

Sighing, he exited the live feeds. It would be necessary to limit his web use as much as possible and use back doors whenever possible to hide his internet location. An hour or so passed as he impatiently waited for the service to be over. He needed to text Mycroft to arrange a transfer of his violin and other items he missed already.

Reaching for his GSM phone, he texted Molly,

"Come to Elephant and Castle Station as soon as you can.

Text me when there."

SH

Leaving the flat after waiting another 20 minutes, he took first one taxi and then another as a precaution to being followed. Arriving at Elephant and Castle, he engaged a third and waited for Molly's text. After sitting there for about 15 minutes, she texted him,

Arrived

MH

Look for a taxi marked LT57CAB

Get in

SH

Alighting on the street that Sherlock had indicated, Molly looked around for a bit until she spotted the taxi number from the text. Getting in, she looked over to see a man wearing a beanie hat, gray pullover sweater with a shabby white polo shirt underneath, and blue slacks. A shabby cotton raincoat was on the seat beside him and a library bag full of books sat on the floor. At the top, she saw "Traveller's Guide to the Universe", and "The Zombie Survival Guide". He had a day's growth of beard and wore thick framed black glasses that made his brown eyes look huge. The fringes of his dirty blond hair hung in his eyes, and clung limply to the back of his neck. The taxi dodged in the busy traffic and for a while they sat in silence with Sherlock looking back intermittently, as if looking for someone.

She looked questioningly at him, and he answered,

"For now, a taxi is the safest for talking. We'll change in a bit; just to make sure you weren't followed, if that's okay with you."

"It's fine"

She looked at him to find him analyzing her as he had done the first time they met.

"You looked a little tense at the beginning of the funeral, but your emotional reactions were extremely convincing, they looked real. It's a good thing you didn't talk yourself completely out of going, someone would have wondered why."

"How did you... Never mind... She shook her head, "and actually, my emotions weren't an act they were real"

"Right" he seemed to catalogue that.

"You're dying to ask me if I'm OK, and where I've been. Not a good idea to tell you anything, unless you have to know. And apparently, you're the expert in whether I'm OK or not."

"You seem more...yourself than in the lab that night, no, I mean you don't look yourself at all, I'd never have noticed you at all, I mean I don't notice guys usually anyway... "(Now would be a good time to stop)

Molly killed herself mentally, looking over at Sherlock; he was smirking at her, but surprisingly said nothing about it. His voice was kind, yet matter of fact as he spoke again,

"You do know you probably won't see me again for a long while, or you'd soon become a target. I do need someone, so if you see an email from an Arthur Bright, open it, and reply if necessary. I'll be using a different temporary email each time so check anything that looks unusual. And yes, I do know your email address. You're a practical person, ruling out pets or pop stars in it; you're dedicated to your work but you don't drag it home, ruling out any reference to St. Bart, also you're too cheerful to be fascinated by its morbidity; this generally leaves family and you've mentioned your dad on at least one occasion with reverence. This is likely your first email as you seem to like continuity- probably drawn in by the Yahoo phenomenon, I assume your dad was already sick and I think you needed to keep him alive and healthy at least in your memory-which adds up to Albert_.com . "

Any other day she would likely have been flattered at being noticed and analyzed by him, especially since it wasn't belittling or harsh, but today was too sad to indulge in a game of wit with him. He seemed to read that, and continued as he handed her a small key he dug out from a pocket of the bag, "I hope you're as good at keeping track of small details in your personal life as you seem to be at St. Bart's, this key opens locker 162 at Westfield Hostel. If it's an urgent matter, leave a note for me, or drop off anything I request in an email, you'll be notified if the location changes. . An old remote in a drawer is a safe place to stash, not likely anyone would look there I'm ditching the phone you bought later tonight; it served its purpose already."

"Mind walking for a while?" he asked in a low voice.

She looked out to see a quiet residential area, heavily treed with houses set back from the road, it was overcast now; it hadn't been in the cemetery. She shook her head.

"I SAID I'M FINE!" he yelled alarmingly, and in surprise she jumped while he made motions for her to prepare to get out, the cabbie stopping in surprise.

She got out and slammed the cab door shut, stomping off, admittedly a little bewildered. Sherlock apparently dealt with the fare and rushed to catch up.

"What was that about?"

"Looks like we stopped there because we fought, allows us to walk after stopping the cab in a quiet, run-of-the-mill area, would be odd behaviour otherwise, also helps me gauge how quick you can catch on to a ruse, not bad for the first time. There'll be places up ahead to catch another cab again, and then I'll have to drop you off and disappear."

She looked sad, but smiled at him bravely.

"You look sad now."

"Sorry, but I did just attend a funeral which you, I and your brother know wasn't real but ... "

"Speaking of the funeral and the burial service, what I saw of the funeral looked ordinary, nobody that shouldn't have been there, but what about graveside?"

She thought back, and jumped when he said, "You did see something then."

"Well, just when the minister was beginning his reading, I noticed a woman, standing back from the ...the plot, you know?" gulping at the memory of how it had felt to stand by his graveside.

"Go on"

"She didn't look British, and she didn't act like she had come as a mourner, too businesslike and tough, and at a guess I'd say Eastern European, maybe... really blonde you know, and those shades they wear"

"Mycroft noticed her, I assume"

"Yeah, I think so. I caught her staring at people a couple of times, but mostly I was ..."

"Sad"

"Perplexed and troubled, more like, I mean, what happened on the roof, it's truly the bravest thing I ever saw... but it's going to be hard to see the others like that, knowing you're out there someplace. John talks in private like he knows you didn't die but he's fighting against what he saw and heard for himself, and what other "eyewitnesses" described. He's fighting for you for what it's worth. "

"We've gone past the point of no return, what happened was unforgivable, coming from a person you consider a friend"

"John's not like that, I mean underneath he's pretty mad thinking that if it was staged how could you let him believe it was real (she shook her head) but eventually I think he'll seriously want to find you, and when he does , please just make sure you're there"

Seeing a cab, Sherlock flagged it, and they climbed back in to ride to a nearby rail station.

"And please, stay alive," she took a breath, "for me, that's all."

He requested the cab to stop, and Molly, assuming the meeting was over, started to open the door and get out. Sherlock grabbed her hand unthinkingly to stop her momentarily, and both of them froze at the contact.

He climbed out her side of the cab, retaining her hand. Looking down at their hands, he spoke,

"I have you to thank that I am alive now, Molly, and so are the others. So thank you, and I'll be in touch, I promise you that."

He released her hand, and climbed back into the cab. Looking back through the window as it moved away, he pressed his hand on the glass in farewell. Molly looked until she lost sight of it and then turned to catch a train home.

**He held her hand! I'm Canadian so if I'm a little off you'll have to forgive me for grating on you Brits lol! R&R ... Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Hellscrimsonangel - thanks, I liked it too, I couldn't see him doing it except by accident, then realizing it was maybe what he had wanted to do for a while... I have some of his inner thoughts in this chapter which I hope work..

** FangFan - I'm completely new to writing fanfic so the kind words are really wonderful, it means a lot to me that you reviewed mine! I so much love the interpretation of Sherlock and Molly that Benedict, Louise, Moffatt and Gatiss have come up with, they're amazing just as they are.. to me they're hinting Sherlock is not going to be alone if and when John meets someone and I love that.. he was such a sad character in the stories after Watson married.. just Sherlock for a bit here, and yes, a reunion is probably coming..

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><p>"Caring is not an advantage"<p>

It was one of Mycroft's phrases, something he had heard from him as long as he could remember. Lately, he had begun to wonder how much of his ideals and values were his and how much had been instilled by his cold-blooded older brother. He realized that he had never REALLY questioned Mycroft's litanies, taking them on face value, until the night he had stood inside a plane full of corpses and wondered who this man really was that he called his brother.

Being in contact with Molly and John was making him rethink a lot of the paradigms he had based his life on. Molly and John were admittedly not brilliant or noteworthy, but he couldn't argue that their kind and warm-hearted approach to life was just as valid as the one he had been raised with. Holding hands was a sentimental, trivial act that in the past he would have mocked, but having experienced it, there was something in him that now looked forward to the opportunity to do it again, if for no other reason but to feel the comfort of another person's touch.

Silently, he headed for his new flat, stopping first to check if Mycroft's people had been able to place his violin and music, microscope and gun in the storage locker at the Hostel. Thankfully, he carried the items to the waiting taxi and then unloaded them into his home. Hashing over the day, it seemed to him that the meeting with Molly had been fruitful, and he was determined to find out whether it had been Ludmilla Dyachenko- the Russian Deputy Associate Director for Science from the Arkhangelsk International School of Public Health, known to have links into criminal organizations such as Moran's at his graveside. More importantly, whether she could be used to help him bring him down.

He felt battered and weary, still feeling physically and mentally traumatized from the confrontation with Moriarty and the fall. He grimaced as he unpacked, made himself a cup of tea and then settled to do some stealthy cyberspace research, late into the night, and to plan his next steps carefully and precisely.

Kitty Reilly was really making her mark on the world, she told herself as she drove through the busy streets of London. When she had first noticed Richard Brook in her favourite pub, she was amazed at his resemblance to the criminal mastermind whose trial she had reported on for the paper. He had brought over a pint for her where she sat waiting for her friends,

"You're Kitty Reilly, yeah?"

"I am, and you might be..?"

"Richard Brook, mind if I sit?" motioning with his hand.

"Not at all, I'm just waiting for some friends."

"Well, I'll just keep you company if I may?"

"So what do you do, Richard?"

"I'm an actor, actually, not that you've heard of me, not yet anyway, but someday..."

"I know the feeling, wondering if the next thing will be your lucky break,"

"You got some attention covering the big Tower of London case, though, I noticed,"

"Yeah, and if you don't mind me saying, there's something about you that reminds me of him..."

She got out of her car, and noticed a man who appeared to be waiting by the door to her digs. Approaching cautiously she recognized John Watson, the man who had been very vocal in defending Sherlock Holmes' reputation and still refused to acknowledge the facts of what she had uncovered about him.

"Can I talk to you, walk over to a pub...buy you a coffee?"

"What can you and I possibly have to say to each other?"

"Look, you've had your opportunity to speak your mind about Sherlock in the press, don't you think you owe me a chance to tell the other side of the story, fair press; all that? I'm giving you a chance to interview the one person who knew him better than anyone else, OK? If you don't like it, at least I've had my say."

"Fine, there's a place just a block or so down"

Walking into the cafe, they found a private booth near the back; John ordering a coffee for the two of them.

"I've thought so many times what I would say to you if I had the chance. Mostly I just want to say you were wrong about Sherlock. He didn't really seem to care what you or anyone else said about him, but for the record I'm telling you, you got your facts wrong. There."

"Okay, convince me I was wrong, but you weren't there listening to Richard."

"That's the thing maybe I need to hear, what he said to you that convinced you he was telling the truth."

"What makes you think Sherlock was?"

"Look, I was with the man 24/7 practically for the last 2 years, yeah, I know how that sounds, but it wasn't like that, okay? I know where he went, who he talked to-if he would have been meeting "Richard Brook" the amount of times it would have taken to set all this up, I'd like to know where and when that could have happened. And I figured out what the significance of the name, Richard Brook is Reichenbach in German.

I'm telling you, I was there the three times (counting the trial) they ever met besides the roof of St. Bart's. You forget that Sherlock was under oath in court, I suppose you could believe he's the kind of man who could so nonchalantly perjure himself in court, but why do it when it made him like stupid? When we first saw him, he was in disguise in the lab at St. Bart's, introduced himself as "Jim from IT", he looked nothing like the Jim Moriarty at the trial and by the pool side that night, nor like the "Richard Brook" we saw in your flat.

"You saw the portfolio, the DVD adverts, you weren't there, seeing how hard it was for him to confess what he'd done how bad he felt especially about those children," Kitty spoke fiercely.

"The "Jim from IT guy", you would've sworn he was exactly what he said, a friend of our pathologist, and obviously gay, quiet, unassuming, pretty weak frankly. Makes no sense at all for him to show up at St. Bart's does it, pretending to be Jim, working at St Bart's in IT with a thing for her, she knew he's never been in the morgue, she's been there a long time. He was playing with Sherlock there, taunting him."

"Look, when you are associated with someone that long, you know them. That's one thing you can't say about this man you believe in so much, you have no history with him to back up your claim. Anybody can print a resume, make a DVD, how hard is that really if you really decided to do it? I was with Sherlock at the pool, he was just as affected by it as I was, and Moriarty played with us, taunted Sherlock. You sided with a criminal mind against my friend Sherlock Holmes, you helped him assassinate his character and his principles, and I could do nothing but watch you do it. When you called him a fraud you basically called me a fraud and our pathologist, because we were a team. The least you can have is the decency to give him the benefit of the doubt, because you have nothing but a sick twisted man's word to go on."

Getting up, and placing a fiver on the table, he got up and headed to the door while Kitty Reilly looked on.

Some of her readers noticed eventually that she was writing almost nothing about Sherlock Holmes, but assumed she had moved on from the story.

John went back to his temporary lodgings, he might someday be able to go back to Baker Street, but not now. He thought about his conversation with Kitty. There was more he could have said to convince her, but he had had the sense to know that Mycroft's conversations were for his ears only. If all he accomplished was to take the story of Sherlock's downfall out of the press, it would do for now.

The frustrating thing is he had, well, no leads, that he could think of, but both he and Lestrade assumed that intelligence knew more about the rooftop than they were saying. He went over everything Sherlock had said ever since Moriarty had come into the story. He would find a way to prove his friend's innocence, he hoped sooner rather than later.

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><p>maybe this should have been a oneshot .. but I was thinking about how satisfying it would be to tell Kitty off a bit ; and I love John too much not to try to keep tabs on him through this... working on what Sherlock's up to in the mean time.. I'll try not to take too long... take care peeps!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks for reading!

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><p>Three months later, Molly Hooper was still guilty about the lie she had volunteered to be a part of. John and Lestrade continued to show remorse and guilt at not having done enough to spare Sherlock what must have been a terrible confrontation on the roof. It was better to limit her contact with them rather than to risk blurting out the truth that he was alive rather than buried in a cemetery as they supposed. John and Mrs. Hudson went routinely to visit his grave, and Mrs. Hudson had told her about John standing at the end of it, head bowed and fighting back tears. It seemed horribly selfish to remain silent when a few words from her would have spared them their pain.<p>

Lestrade and John had done some investigative work, trying to determine without any success the exact nature of the confrontation or the events that had led up to it. Moriarty had seemingly disappeared without a trace, although there was evidence that a substantial amount of blood had been shed by him. The rooftop was otherwise a clean crime scene that no-one but Sherlock could have learned anything from, but day after day it was apparent that John got out of bed only because he was determined to find the one clue that would lead him to discovering the truth and clearing Sherlock's name.

Since the day of the funeral, she had received emails from "Arthur" pretty routinely, with anonymous packages showing up at work, not always from inside the UK. They generally involved a request to do some research for him in the lab, and send the results to whatever email address he was presently using. He had warned her early about how she would know it was from him, and to be cautious about anything she didn't recognize. She didn't know whether to be comforted to hear from him, or to sigh at his indifferent behaviour. Some of the requests were unusual in their own way, as she had never been asked about anything to do with the field of infectious and airborne diseases, the lab not really being set up for any form of bio-hazard. She had a lot of leeway at work though because of her years of dedicated focus to it, and before long she found herself spending a fair amount of time in becoming knowledgeable about it.

On bad nights alone, she would listen to her playlist, songs like "True Colours", "I'll Stand by you" (Pretenders), and " Feel my Love"(Adele), amongst others, Toby lying consolingly beside her.

Sherlock also seemed to be doing some deductive work, judging from the nature of some of the requests and she wondered if he was actively involving himself in the work that had made him famous. It seemed a dangerous thing to do, but as time passed with no alarms, she also came to realize through Lestrade that an unusual amount of accurate tips were being passed through the anonymous hotline the public had access to.

It came as a surprise one Saturday morning to open an email from Arthur Bright and to read the following message:

Come at once to the following address on Falmouth Rd. Stop at the hospital and grab an infectious diseases medical pack. Bring two coffees and crisps if you wish

AB

She smiled at the grudging tone to the last part of the request, dressed hurriedly and headed out the door to catch a cab to the address he gave her, stopping at the hospital and the cafeteria first. Getting out she found an older block of flats, and the number he gave her led to a small basement flat in the back. She was terrified she would find him badly hurt, and she rang the bell anxiously.

At his voice telling her to come in, she entered the flat, moving forward to the living room, and found him standing at the door of what appeared to be a bedroom. Thankfully, he seemed unharmed, though thinner than when she had last seen him. He was wearing a blue hoodie and gray canvas pants, otherwise his disguise had remained the same.

Motioning her to sit on the couch, he took the medical pack, and relieved her of a coffee, leaving her to place her crisps and coffee on the coffee table, eyeing her speculatively,

"Been a while since I had a good coffee. I hope you took precautions to avoid being followed."

"What's wrong?"

He came to sit next to her and opening the bag of crisps, took a few out,

"Our friend appears to be dying of something that seemed to be just flu mid-week. When he didn't show up as planned, I took the liberty of checking his place. I don't want to alarm you but I think I should get you to take blood samples, mouth swabs, and the like. We might be looking at anthrax, judging by the bruising that seems to be evident. He's got reasons for staying hidden, I obviously can't tell you where I think it came from, but once we do the samples, can you take them to St. Bart's, do the analysis and email me when they're done?"

"Yes, but it'll might take at least a day or so for some of the tests to be completed,"

"Of course, and if it does prove to be anthrax as I suspect, I want you to contact Ludmilla Dyachenko, presently here in London for a WHO conference on Public Health and Safety. She's a guest speaker of the conference and I think she might be extremely interested in this case. Arrange a time for her to come and then let me know about that as well."

"You'll be here the whole time?"

"He needs looking after, don't worry I won't touch him without gloves. I hope you brought yours."

After finishing their coffee, they worked together to gather the necessary specimens. The man appeared to be in his late 30's, medium build with reddish hair and beard. He dozed fitfully, as they tried to complete their tasks without disturbing him. Sherlock continually glanced over at her during the process, and she thought he looked happy to see her. As they gathered the specimens, Molly labelled them, Sherlock packing them into a sturdy bag.

Returning to the living room of the small flat, Molly began to tidy away the styro cups and the empty bags. Sherlock had wandered to its high windows, as she finished and started to grab her coat and bag from the chair she had placed them on.

"Going so soon when we haven't seen each other for three months? Do I dare attribute your weight loss to the fact you missed me?" He spoke softly, turning slightly to look at her.

She approached him slowly, and as he analyzed her reaction to him, she made an effort not to hide her heart from him.

"There's no reason why every email from you must be only about cases or your research, you could end it with ... non-work subjects. You wouldn't miss me so much, either," teasing him.

"And there's no reason why every meeting must be only about work, we could end them with..." his voice rasping, as he stepped toward her.

"This"... Gracefully he moved nearer, his hands encircling her small waist, tugging gently until she rested against him, her eyes fluttering shut. His mouth found hers hesitantly, but unerringly, and her hands went up to his shoulders, caressing as she pulled him in a little closer. As the kiss deepened, the gentleness of his touch overwhelmed her.

Relaxing their embrace, they looked at each other for a long moment; Sherlock smiling warmly, his eyes shining brighter than she had ever seen. She turned to get her coat and bag, as Sherlock turned again to the window.

Moving to the door, his words behind her halted her momentarily,

"I think I'm okay now..."

She hesitated, then determinedly opened the door, and left for the hospital.

Much later, she had returned home, she opened his email,

"Be careful what information you pass to Ludmilla. Only mention the case and the research, tell her the patient's name is Thomas Leland. She can email me, Edmund Bright, for more details. Be vague and like this is just any other lab work, there must be no way for her to connect you and I. What non-work subjects did you specifically have in mind?"

Smiling, she clicked reply, and began to type.

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><p>I had an idea to connect this with one of Sir AC Doyle's stories, I could crash and burn on this idea, we'll see...<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry about the delay.. this is tougher than it looks lol.. I hope it's not clunky like it seems

*FangFan he's a contradiction that way, can read everybody but himself.. I hope I don't stray too far off of where the character is played but the lab scene with Molly was a definite chink in the armor I think.. John wouldn't just give up and let things lie I think so too..

*Hellscrimsonangel yeah, the whole physical aspect doesn't seem to come easy with him.. but I think even he realizes he's been missing her..

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><p>Meeting John Watson outside her flat, being unable to defend herself from his accusations, coupled with the disquieting disappearance of Richard Brooks had forced Kitty Reilly to accept that there might be more to Richard's claims than she had originally believed. Although she hadn't seen Richard since the night of the confrontation in her flat, he had called her early that morning, wondering if she had heard about Sherlock Holmes being seen on the roof of St. Bart's, maybe she should come down to check the story out. Her coverage had earned her a front page by-line and boosted her reputation up at the office, but somehow it had not been as satisfying as she once would have believed.<p>

She could admit now that she might possibly have been caught up in Richard's flattery, his assurances that she was uniquely intuitive, able to see under the veneer of Sherlock Holmes to the raw conniving charlatan underneath. She had determinedly begun to do the research both Sherlock and John had suggested of her, checking out Richard's character sources, his job references, everything that was on paper in her possession. To her dismay, she was discovering that the companies and people listed either did not exist or had never heard of Richard Brook, and it appeared John Watson had been right to rebuke her for accepting Richard's accusations at face value without doing her homework to ensure for herself their credibility or the credibility of the man making the claims.

Undeniably, a massive amount of Londoners believed in Sherlock Holmes' authenticity and integrity no matter what they heard to the contrary about him. Her voicemail and email boxes had constantly overflowed with dozens and dozens of messages from people determined to voice their support of Sherlock Holmes, and more than once she had come face to face with a brick wall covered over with #believeinSherlock messages.

Making the decision to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade, informing them she might have information for them regarding Richard Brooks had taken all her courage. Arriving at the detachment, she was immediately shown into his office where both he and John Watson waited for her. Their faces were sceptical; Lestrade's looking jaded while John Watson looked at her with hard eyes. Politely, they offered her a chair before seating themselves.

Breaking the uncomfortable silence, "Umm... I've been going over what you said to me, Mr. Watson, the last time we met. I, umm... you were right to say what you did, because I think I made a terrible mistake."

Crossing his arms, John spoke up point blank honest, "What are you really here for Kitty, guilty conscience, setting us up...Any of that?

"We have to hear her out John... then make our judgments, OK? Miss Reilly?" Lestrade giving Kitty the floor, leaning back with speculation in his posture.

"I've come to believe I owe you my full and willing compliance with your investigation into this matter. "

"Come off it, Kitty, we're not buying it" John jumped in, unable to stay silent.

"I'm offering you the opportunity to go through Richard's portfolio, I'm willing to tell you everything I heard or saw in my interactions with him, everything he had about Mr. Holmes, if there's anything suspicious or off in it I want you to find it. Either way, I want to help find the truth about Richard Brooks."

"Kitty, I don't know how much you know about that encounter on the roof," looking over at John, who shrugged resignedly, "We have reason to believe Jim Moriarty suffered a life-threatening injury. Ml5 handled the crime scene which they then thoroughly cleaned up, but my people saw enough to know that a substantial amount of blood was shed on that roof, and it doesn't match up with the blood found where Sherlock fell."

Kitty stiffened in shock, swallowed and spoke up,

"All the more reason for me to comply, to find out what the truth, that's all I want."

"Tell us how this all started."

Slowly, painstakingly, searching her memory for the details they requested, she began to tell them of every encounter, every call and then she gave them his portfolio.

"This is everything he left at my place."

"What about phone calls you might have overheard-any chance or planned meetings? Anyone you could identify as being an associate of Richard Brooks?"

"I could see how he disliked the articles that praised Sherlock's brilliant work as a detective, and when I asked him about it, he poured out this story of being used by Sherlock as a puppet to play his elaborate deception on the public."

"There is only one name I can give you, I took a call once when Richard was in the shower, the woman gave her name as Ludmilla Dyachenko?"

"Who?" John looked confused.

"I wrote it down, it's on the back of one of the sheets now in the portfolio, but at the time I forgot to mention it and it never came up again."

"Mr. Watson, I agree with you that it was unprofessional of me to not check his sources, you'll find most are apparently made up. I guess I wanted to dismiss the home truths Sherlock told me that day we met at the trial, believing him a fraud helped me do that. I'm sorry."

She rose to go, and Lestrade informed her,

"It would be good if you contact us if you think of anything else that could help us Miss Reilly. Anything that could clear this up is much appreciated. "

Molly Hooper had returned to the hospital in a bit of a daze. What had transpired had almost seemed like her silly infatuated dreams had crossed over into reality. When she had first met Sherlock she had only been pathologist at St. Bart's for about 18 months. Her life had been lonely since her dad had lost his battle to cancer not long after she was accepted into medical school. In pathology and mortuary services, she had found the satisfaction of providing an essential service: giving people the comfort of knowing their loved one's remains had been handled in a caring personal matter.

Unlike the other cute guys she had met since moving to London, Sherlock had not been repulsed by what she did for a living but she wondered why she remained attached to him when he continually brushed her off or belittled her.

She was almost sure none of her conversations or remarks with him had ever registered with him except on two occasions—one night at a Christmas party where he had had the grace to look ashamed of his biting remarks; and the night he had come to her in the lab before he met Moriarty. He was in a state of vulnerability she doubted anyone else had ever seen, in desperate need of help, and it seemed that from that night on, she had crossed the high bar he set for those he was willing to trust. He didn't say much when he emailed her, but it was a statement of trust in itself that he did, and it made the following months without him easier to endure.

Entering the lab, she began the tedious exacting clinical work that would determine if the anthrax bacteria were the cause of Tome Leland's illness. Sherlock would have brushed off her concerns for his own safety, which is why she tried to keep the meeting on a professional level where it usually stayed. Instinctively, she understood his need for space, for emotional distance between himself and those around him. Sherlock met you on his own terms, and seemed to dare you to maintain a relationship based on stark reality. He hated pretension, charades and manipulation. Someday she would like to ask him why, maybe now she would now that it appeared he intended to give their relationship a chance to grow. With Sherlock, it would be difficult not to doubt his sincerity, but she couldn't deny that her heart wanted to believe it. The brief moments in his arms when she had been pressed near to his heart had been the fulfillment of everything she had hoped for; they may have been worth the possibly inevitable heartache they would bring.

After a couple days of intensive testing, she was able to confirm that they were in fact dealing with Bacillus anthracis, a bacteria that was almost inevitably deadly when it affected animals and humans. When she was sure, she set about fulfilling the next of Sherlock's requests, to contact the secretary of Ms. Ludmilla Dyachenko, ensuring she received the request for attention from Edmund Bright, and that she received the results of her lab work.

Going home she sent Sherlock an email,

The test for Tom Leland came back positive for anthrax, as you suspected. Have contacted Ms. Dyachenko, and am in the process of ensuring she receives all pertinent data, and have given her the name and email of Edmund Bright as a contact name.

I thought about you today

MH

Excellent work, things should go according to plan. Thought about you also (is that non-work enough for you?)

AB


	9. Chapter 9

Well, that's as far as I can take this story for now.. I have ideas for a sequel.. what do you guys think? thank you so much for reading! (I use the case of the Dying Detective for my mystery btw)

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><p>After Molly's departure, Sherlock continued throughout the weekend to nurse the gravely ill Interpol agent. He had been able to contact the agent's associates, bringing in their medico, but it was obvious the agent would not survive the ordeal. If he had been found sooner, they would have had a chance to fight the progress of the bacterium into his lymphatic system and vital organs. Sherlock was determined that the loss of the agent would not be in vain. The arrival of Molly's email and her fulfillment of the instructions to send the results to Ms. Dyachenko had been fruitful, for she had subsequently contacted Edmund Bright. In return she was contacted by the "physician" in the team informing her of the case details of his "patient" and that Edmund Bright himself was a new possible case, and they awaited her interest in the case at her earliest convenience. The team worked steadily to prepare the sting while they waited until the following email came back:<p>

Dr. Robert Atkins

Fr: the office of Ms. Dyachenko

Most interesting case files. Ms. Dyachenko is able to meet you at 2:00pm Friday. Please reply if satisfactory

MV

At 2:00 Friday, a silver-gray Bentley Turbo R pulled up to Tom Leland's address. A note attached the door instructed her entourage to walk in. Striding into the bedroom with her personal assistant, Ludmilla found both men lying almost comatose. Tom Leland was obviously close to death, and "Edmund Bright" seemed feverishly restless upon their entrance, bearing the bruising and lesions on his hand that were symptoms of the disease.

From inside a white plumber's van marked with a company logo, the Interpol strike team monitored the room from the cameras and bugs they had installed, the agents set on high alert to intervene. For a time, Ms. Dyachenko stood silent at the bedside, looking at the obviously suffering Holmes and his comatose associate, Tom Leland. Then she spoke authoritatively,

"Bright!" she cried. "Bright!" in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me?"

"Is that you, ?" He whispered feebly. "I hardly dared hope that you would come."

"I should imagine not," she said. "And yet, you see, I am here!"

"Tom and I have an appreciation for your special knowledge."

Ms. Dyachenko laughed.

"That maybe. Do you know what the matter with you is? You recognized the symptoms?"

"The lab tests were conclusive."

"Mr. Leland is now a dead man after 5 days-a strong, hearty young fellow. It is very surprising that he should have contracted an extraordinary disease in the heart of London, is it not?-a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study.

You are proud of your brains, are you not, Mr "Bright"? Think yourself smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time, for I doubt you know how you got it?"

"I can't think. For God's sake, help me!" he cried.

"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

"I need something for the pain!"

"First, you can hear what I say. Can you remember anything unusual about this house just about the time your symptoms began?"

"Nothing."

"Think again."

"I'm too ill to think."

She shook the dying man, "You must hear me. Something was different about the room freshener. You must have thought so for I can see you have changed it."

"Yes. It bore evidence of being tampered with."

"We found it the garbage, so there goes your last shred of evidence. You have the truth now and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much about my plans. I will stay here and I will watch you die."

"I very much doubt that."

Sherlock spoke in his usual dry tone of voice.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded, as Sherlock rose to his feet.

"I have gone without water for the last couple of days to better act the part, and a bit of stage makeup didn't hurt my cause. You expected to find two dying men so that is what you saw, obviously. The bugs planted here recorded your testimony and will help convict you of this man's murder and my attempted murder. It appears you might not be as smart as you thought."

With that the Interpol team rushed into the room subduing the woman and her associates.

"The aerosol was obviously tampered with when I came in. Removing it eliminated any chance of myself or anyone else being infected. "

Ms. Dyachenko was taken away for questioning, especially about her knowledge of Sebastian Moran's organization. What they would get out of her would be invaluable to bring him down.

At home Friday night after a long tiring week, tired of the wet London weather, Molly showered, fed Toby, and ate. She hadn't heard from Sherlock since he received confirmation of the anthrax. Turning on the telly, she stopped what she was doing, turning it up when she heard the name of Ludmilla Dyachenko. A reporter was on the scene in south London, filming from what appeared to be the same block of flats she had visited. A spokesperson for Interpol was on camera although it was clear they were not about to be forthcoming with details, although there was talk of a terrorist plot being thwarted by their efforts. Molly clapped her hand over her mouth, stunned to realize Sherlock had been successful in his quest. She was proud of him, and wished she could tell him so.

Lestrade and John watched the news in amazement, as the woman they were in the process of investigating since Kitty's interview was taken away in handcuffs by an Interpol team for suspected bio-terrorism. Looking closely at them, John spied a figure in one of the vehicles that bore Sherlock's build and demeanour. Turning to look at Lestrade, he saw him also studying the figure. Their eyes met quizzically, and then they shrugged and continued watching, although John mentally swore to somehow continue his search for the truth. Kitty had been right after all, it appeared Ms. Dyachenko had been more than just a WHO official, which meant they were on the right track.

Later, an email came for Molly,

I assume you watch the news. Could lead to promising new developments, you did well. Anything new at work—cases you wish to discuss? By the way, do you like the violin?

EB

Clicking reply, she typed,

Very thrilled to hear about it; that you're safe. There are a few cases you would be interested in. Can send them as attachments anytime you wish. My dad often played records of Violin Concertos; Bach's Concerto in D minor for 2 violins was one of his favourites.

MH

Last email I can send you for a while, Molly. Going underground to finish this once and for all. Watch for any packages, will try to get back to you about your files. Stay safe, Molly, and try not to miss me too much. Could be interesting discussing violin concertos. Answer the door for the delivery boy.

EB

There were tears in eyes as she finished reading the email. At a knock, she hurried to the door; cautiously opening it she was given a package and asked to sign for it.

Smiling she took the bag to the couch, and sat down. The bag contained a wrapped package, and a card. Opening the card, she read,

My dearest Molly,

My favourite spot in all London is a bench on the canal in Little Venice near Woodchester Square. You're welcome to it any time. I hope you enjoy the music.

Love, Sherlock XXX

Sighing, she opened her packages to find 2 CD's of violin concertos. Placing one in her stereo, she fell asleep on the couch, while the rain drizzled down. Miles away, the van containing the Interpol team pulled into the parking lot of the small village inn where they would stay for a few days before moving on. In his room, Sherlock laid back and listened to the same concertos he had given Molly, falling asleep making plans to take the heart out of Moran's organization.


End file.
